


the sorting

by malapropism



Series: home is where you build your heart [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Growing Up, Hogwarts, Hogwarts First Year, M/M, MWPP Era, Marauders, Pre-Slash, Slow Build, Sorting Ceremony, Sorting Hat Song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 05:30:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1416856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malapropism/pseuds/malapropism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prologue to a much, much longer story, this is the account of the Sorting of four boys in the September of 1971: James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew.</p><p>Part of my <i>home is where you build your heart</i> series, a canonically based history of the Marauders at Hogwarts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sorting

When Godric Gryffindor had torn the Hat from atop his head and presented his gently battered cap to the other three founders of the Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, it had seemed like a simple solution to an inescapable problem.

They had stuffed the Hat with brains - Salazar's idea, and Rowena's spellwork - and breathed a bit of life into its fabric folds, so that it might act as steward in their place. Long after the founders had come and gone, the Sorting Hat would remain, tasked with the divvying up of a new year's crop of witches and wizards. The Hat was called to do the Sorting, to preserve the spirits of the four who started it all. And so, every September it would settle over the brows of the new first-years and peer inside their minds, seeking out the traits that each founder had so esteemed. In the name of tradition, in the name of unity.

For the rest of the year, the Hat would simply think. Given the gift of brains, it could not help but use them, and as the years passed by, the centuries wore on, and the Hat remained, it began to wonder. It felt a sense of duty to the school, which had been its home and its sole concern for all remembered time. It felt responsible for the school's future, for its harmony, for its students.

Some days, the Hat couldn't help but consider the possibility that its work - the Sorting of the students - might be a wound to that harmony. Eventually, divisiveness had overtaken the original four, and at times, it threatened to engulf their houses. It seemed that, in this case, it was difference that bred contempt. Easy enough to look across the divide at the other and say _You are less than I_ , far more difficult to recognise difference and similarity at once, to raise up what made each house unique without placing those qualities upon a scale.

Some days, the Hat wondered if there might be a better way to go about all of this.

And while the Hat knew, having whispered into the mind of Albus Dumbledore, the present Headmaster of Hogwarts, that it was not alone in this wondering, it also knew that it had been made to Sort. That was its nature. It could not change the course.

But it could sing its song, it could offer advice and teach the history and whisper warnings. And it could look into the minds of each new generation of witches and wizards, and murmur unspoken truths into their minds.

The Hat had seen evil and excellence, sometimes in a single mind. It had seen all the traits most prized by the four founders, and all the flaws that foretold danger, all in the heads of eleven-year-old girls and boys. Sometimes, the Hat wondered if it would be better to turn some of those minds away from Hogwarts, for it saw things amongst their memories that cast dark shadows over the future. But, while much had changed over the centuries, that central creed - that all might have a place at Hogwarts - had withstood every assault, had weathered all storms. All things were _possible_ , with regards to the mind of an eleven year old, and so the Hat adopted a philosophy of possibility. Of what _could_ be, rather than what simply _was_. And that's why, on certain rare occasions, the Hat allowed the child to choose his or her own path.

For the most part, the Hat would never whisper into these minds again. A snapshot of the mind and memory of an eleven year old, on the brink of it all, when everything _might be_ , and that was it. These eleven year olds would grow up to become versions of their eleven-year-old selves. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. Sometimes they'd become mere flickers of that child, sometimes perfect extensions. Some would be surprises, even to themselves. For the most part, the Hat would never see what those eleven year olds would become, and for the most part, that was all right.

It was a crisp day in the September of 1971, and it was time for another year to begin. A new herd of young witches and wizards would be shuffling across the Great Hall, and soon the Hat would do its work. But first, a song.

_You might not think much of me,_  
 _wrinkled as I am, with all my dirt and grime._  
 _And as you'll soon learn: looks can be deceiving,_  
 _but I'll suit you every time._  
 _I'll put you in your place, that's for sure,_  
 _but heed a word of caution from this friendly old cap:_  
 _as tempting as it might be, to sort and to define,_  
 _judging a book by its cover, that's an age-old trap._

_At the start of it all, it was one for all,_  
 _and all for one, all for four._  
 _Our storied founders, bound by common faith,_  
 _Endeavoured to found a school, marked by an open door._  
 _All who sought knowledge would gain entrance,_  
 _their minds once empty but of dust_  
 _soon filled with precious wisdom,_  
 _lovingly polished to forestall rust._

_But each of our cherished founders,_  
 _determined to leave their mark,_  
 _treasured best those students in whom_  
 _they saw a certain familiar spark._  
 _Gryffindor, a sense of honour, his own thirst for valour._  
 _Ravenclaw, that curiosity, the pull of learning for learning's sake._  
 _Hufflepuff, her dear generosity, patience, and heart,_  
 _and Slytherin, his keen-eyed cleverness, the power of the snake._

_And while it might be true that like goes with like,_  
 _it's also said that opposites attract._  
 _While there is much that divides us,_  
 _there's more to be gained from harmony than division, in fact._  
 _These days bring change on the wind, for better or for worse,_  
 _and soon the time will come for loyalties to declare_  
 _But I for one find cause to wonder,_  
 _with fewer lines between us, how we might all fare._

_Sort you I must, for that is my calling,_  
 _and while I've got a certain knack for it,_  
 _Seer I am not. Heed this: my business is simply_  
 _what's present betwixt your young ears, to wit._  
 _What happens next, as the story unfolds,_  
 _whether you will bleed for love or spite,_  
 _I cannot divine, though we will see in time,_  
 _whether you shall choose the dark or the light._

_I'll offer no more words of sage wisdom,_  
 _save this last token:_  
 _when fear divides a home, and walls rise up,_  
 _dangerous beasts are woken._

For a moment, silence stuttered across the Great Hall. Some of the older students rustled in their seats, twisting around to cast raised eyebrows down the long tables. Along the High Table, some of the professor exchanged quiet murmurs. Albus Dumbledore remained as he had throughout the Sorting Hat's song: thin fingers steepled beneath his chin, the corners of his mouth pinned slightly up in a peculiar, knowing sort of half-smile. His eyes remained upon the first-year students, who twitched in place, averting each other's eyes and peering at the now-still Hat through lowered eyelashes. Some looked more nervous than others. A pale boy with clockface eyes, round and flecked with brown, blanched just as the Hat finished its song. He was tall for his age, almost a full head above the other boys, and he seemed to be doing his best to shrink into the floor, retracting into his too-big, well-darned robes. He slipped back, retreating towards the door as Professor McGonagall dusted off a roll of parchment and turned towards the group.

Another boy, with twisting black curls and a thin, drawn mouth, tilted his chin towards the starry ceiling as the Hat quieted. Unlike those around him, who shuffled their feet and pulled at their sleeves, wondering what would happen next, wondering if the Hat's gloominess was an annual occurrence, this boy stood perfectly still. His face was blank, his grey eyes unmoving, fixed on a point in the sky above.

Towards the front of the pack of new students, the candlelight flickered off the spectacles of a boy with electrocuted hair. He was one of the few first-years who seemed undaunted by the vastness of the Hall, the moroseness of the Hat, and the uncertainty of the next moment. He grinned wildly, eagerly, and turned towards the smaller boy at his side, whose rosy cheeks were rapidly losing their color. The bespectacled boy muttered a few quick words into his ear, jabbing the smaller boy in the ribs confidently. The smaller boy blushed violently.

Professor McGonagall waved her wand across the seam of the roll of parchment, and it sprang open with a soft pop. It floated into the air, revealing the inked names of each new student. She studied the list for a moment, and then cast her gaze over the new first years. The Sorting Hat, perched upon a three-legged stool in the center of the room, remained ominously silent.

Professor McGonagall had, before the first years entered the Great Hall, explained what the Sorting would entail, quelling a vibrant exchange of increasingly dramatic rumours regarding this much-anticipated moment. And while it certainly did seem relatively simple - just a hat on your head, after all - a collective shudder ran through the little gaggle as McGonagall announced the first name:

"Abbott, Bowen."

A moon-faced boy compulsively ran his fingers through short auburn curls as he stepped forward, determinedly fixing his gaze on the Hat. He picked up the battered scrap of fabric and settled on the stool, pulling the Hat over his ears.

While the first-years looked on with a mixture of trepidation and greedy anticipation, the rest of the Great Hall allowed for some distraction. Only Dumbledore and McGonagall kept a steady eye on the proceedings. The students already seated at their long tables chattered softly amongst themselves, eager to greet their new housemates and their dinner; the other professors seated along the High Table continued to consider the Hat's song with their neighbours.

It took the Hat about two minutes to name the Abbott boy a _"HUFFLEPUFF,"_ which caused the table festooned with yellow and black drapings to raise up a cry. The Abbott boy pulled the Hat from his head, smiling with relief and heading shakily for the Hufflepuff table.

The Sorting marched on. Its rhythm was, for the most part, steady. A name would ring out in McGonagall's clear, sharp tones; a weak-kneed first year would toddle up to the stool and pull the Hat on; there would be a brief silence, usually no more than a few moments, and then, the slit at the Hat's brim would yawn open. _"GRYFFINDOR"_ , then _"SLYTHERIN"_ twice in a row, then another _"HUFFLEPUFF"_ , and so on.

But when the grey-eyed boy with the sharp nose and the tangled curls ("Black, Sirius," McGonagall had called him) stalked up towards the stool, the rhythm of the Sorting was upset.

He jammed the Hat down over his eyes, and waited.

 _What have we here,_ the Hat whispered in the Black boy's ear. _I've tasted the thoughts of your family before, always a little greasy, a little bitter on the proverbial tongue. But you, you've got a different flavour to you, don't you, young one?_

Sirius shifted ever so slightly in his seat, unconsciously tilting towards the Slytherin table. His inevitable destination.

_You'd like to go there, wouldn't you? It would certainly be easier for you, to follow in the family's shadow, but you've never been one to hang about in the dark. Too bright, too brash. That particular quality might get you into trouble, which you just might like a bit. A little danger, a moment to prove yourself, yes, perhaps you're better suited for -_

The boy sniffed slightly.

The Hat chuckled in his ear - and now, that didn't seem quite right, that Hats could chuckle, but it did - and continued to whisper, _You're a still one, aren't you. Too afraid to make a move out of line right now. So contained. Just like you were taught to be, I'd expect. Perhaps even a bit fearful, perhaps I've misjudged you, then..._

 _No,_ Sirius thought forcefully, reflexively. _I'm not afraid._

The Hat chuckled again. _No, you really aren't. I can see that, I can see it all._

Sirius felt as if his mind, his memories, were a book, and someone was flicking through its pages. His head buzzed a little at the sensation, and he shivered. He hadn't expected anything from the Sorting, had known that there was only one option for someone like him. Even as that tiny voice in the back of his head muttered, _You're not like the rest of them, you're better than that,_ it protests were often all too easily silenced by the shrill echo of his mother's threats, the unyielding force of his father's expectations. There had always been something _different_ burrowed at the core of Sirius: a flicker of defiance, a flash of righteousness, a quick temper, a heady awareness of simply being _better_ than his family. But they were all he had known, and their life was all he knew to expect. And for the most part, over the years, that part of Sirius - that bright flame - had been snuffed out.

The Hat continued. _Sometimes, it does to defy expectations, and I rather think you might. I certainly like to shock them all, every once and a while. And I think that, in the end, you'll thank me for this._

In the Great Hall, the silence had stretched into uneasiness, as a few minutes bore onto five, then ten, until at last, at twelve full minutes, the maw of the Hat cracked -

_"GRYFFINDOR."_

The Gryffindor table, blanketed in scarlet and gold streamers, was startled into a good-natured cheer for its newest member. Some students at the Slytherin table, with its deep green and cool silver, immediately began to hiss with furtive, fervent murmuring. Their eyes flitted to Sirius, but he kept his eyes low.

The Sorting went on, and no one felt the earth shake beneath the Great Hall save Sirius Black himself. He tore the Hat from his brow and moved mechanically, quickly, horrifically, towards his table. His black tie bloomed into colour, the loud duo of scarlet and gold, as he thudded into a seat at the empty end of the table. Hands clapped him on the back, mouths chattered introductions, but Sirius was unmoved, even as his world began to twist around him.

For a brief, clear moment, he thought of rushing back to the Hat, of asking for a do-over. He had not spoken back to the Hat, he reasoned, had not demanded his birthright, and he could do that now. Now that he knew what it felt like to feel the world shift, to hear the clang of doors shutting and the groan of the walls closing in around him. He caught a glimpse of the flashing blonde head of his cousin, whispering and pointing towards him, the newly minted black sheep of the Black family, and in that instant, he almost jumped to his feet.

But he didn't. Realistically, he didn't imagine that McGonagall, a rather stern and imposing woman, would give him a second chance, and even if she did, he doubted that the Hat would change its mind. Besides, if Sirius allowed himself the truth, and listened to that tiny voice at the back of his head, he knew that his silence, his stiffness, during the Sorting had been a kind of prayer. Some part of him had always hoped for proof of what he had long suspected: that he _was_ different from his family. He had always felt somewhat out of place at home, had always known that something was just slightly _off_ about him. His father was always quick to point this out, after all. But he had never really known why he itched under the mantle of the Black family. And now, he at least had proof. He was different.

That didn't feel quite as good as he'd dreamt it would.

The gaggle of first-years dwindled as the empty ends of the four long tables filled. A green-eyed girl with hair the colour of the scarlet hangings was Sorted to Gryffindor, and she excitedly settled across the table from Sirius, and immediately began to chat away with a freckled second year girl. A sallow-faced boy with slick black hair that brushed his shoulders frowned in the direction of the green-eyed girl, and then turned away. More went to _"HUFFLEPUFF"_ , and to _"RAVENCLAW"_ , and then one to _"SLYTHERIN"_ , and then Professor McGonagall called out, "Lupin, Remus."

The tall boy had been lingering at the fringes of the group, as if he hoped to escape at the last minute. But when his name was called, he approached the Hat carefully, with a kind of resigned determination distinct from the typically shaky nerves of the other students. He pulled the Hat onto his head. He wrapped his fingers in the sleeves of his robes and pulled them over the wrists, and waited.

 _Ah, hello,_ the Hat whispered in his ear, _You. I'm not sure what to do with you. You are something different._

His jaw tightened and set. _No, I'm not,_ Remus thought firmly.

_You can't deny it, boy. You've got a streak of the wild in you. Now, I'm not prejudiced; a Hat's not prone to bigotry, it'll sit on any head just the same -_

The thought rushed, fully formed, through Remus' mind. _And then what about "dangerous beasts are woken"?_ The tips of his ears, mercifully hidden by the Hat's yawning brim, blushed at his unbidden brusqueness. But, Remus reasoned with himself, this was just a Hat, and it didn't even look like it was going to Sort him, so he might as well chance a little anger. He was rarely allowed to be angry.

The Hat made a noise that Remus imagined must have been a laugh.

_Well, there's that fire. You've got a strength to you that the others don't, and well, how could they? They haven't seen what you've seen. And you've come out well, all things considered._

Remus bristled.

_Now, don't take me wrongly, little one. Look at how you prickle. It's simply true. I can wade through your memories, and I see you. And yes, "all things considered," for those "things" might have broken a boy, and they didn't you. No, they did not. Now, where to put someone like you..._

Remus took a breath, and then thought in his clearest voice, _Ravenclaw, maybe?_

The Hat hummed. _You would like that, now wouldn't you. You like your books, and you'd prefer to hide away in their pages. You've got a quick mind. You'd likely fare well in Rowena's house, but I don't think that's the place for you. Too many inquisitive minds who might go inquiring, don't you see?_

Remus paled again, and the Hat went on. _But more importantly, you don't really love learning for learning's sake. The books, all the studying, the knowledge consumed - and I can see it in your memories, I can - that's been years of hiding, of erecting barriers, of defending yourself, of walling yourself in. You would like to pretend that's all you need, but I know better, I see better, and I rather imagine that the people you'll need will be in -_

_"GRYFFINDOR."_

Gently tugging the Hat off, Remus stood and blinked, turning towards the cheering Gryffindor table. Free of the Hat, Remus felt a quick, creeping anxiety take root in his stomach. For whatever reason, he had not really questioned the Hat's knowledge of his _difference_ , not while it was atop his head. Then, it had felt natural, in a way, that the Hat would know about _that_ , But as he walked to a vacant seat at the Gryffindor table, alongside a green-eyed girl with bright, fiery hair, he felt laid bare before the entire Great Hall. He had been stubborn in conversation - if that was even the right word for what had just happened - with the Hat, and now, he regretted his boldness. He had to remember to be careful.

Remus turned his gaze to the sorting, which went through a young boy named Macmillan ( _"HUFFLEPUFF,"_ the Hat had screeched after fifteen seconds atop the boy's carefully oiled coif), and watched as McGonagall called out, "Pettigrew, Peter."

The boy called Pettigrew blushed fiercely, and his grinning companion cheerfully pushed him forward as he stumbled towards the Hat. His fingers fumbled at its brim for a moment, and then he quickly drew it all the way down, over his eyes.

 _Hello, there,_ the Hat murmured. Peter twitched in his seat, surprised not at the sound, but the _feeling_ of the Hat's voice, the intimacy of it.

 _Wotcher,_ Peter thought back, and then wondered if he was really supposed to be talking back to the thing.

 _You know, you're cleverer than you seem,_ the Hat whispered. Peter snorted inaudibly at that. His entire life, he'd been reminded of exactly the opposite by his grandmother, who had raised Peter since he was six or so. Peter had been slow to show his magic, slow to take to his broomstick, was always slow to speak, slow to really just about everything, to hear his grandmother tell it. Peter knew that it wasn't that he was _stupid_ , but that he was cautious. He watched before he acted, he was careful, and he preferred to stay in the background while others leapt forward. That's why he and James had been such good friends since they were children. James liked to leap; Peter was always there to watch.

 _But you are,_ the Hat intruded, and Peter shook the cobwebs of his thoughts away. _You know how to measure people, you know how to fit yourself to them, around them...Quite clever, sly even...You might do well in Slytherin, you know._

Peter trembled at the name of a house, wondering blindly if that was it, had the Hat shouted, was he really in _Slytherin_?

 _Not Slytherin, then?_ , and the Hat sounded genuinely curious, as if it had been surprised. _Why not, boy? Clever wizards have come from Salazar's house, have aspired to great heights, have achieved much and known the taste of power, and you would, I think, like the taste..._

Peter shook his head jerkily. _Not Slytherin, because..._ Words failed Peter at that critical moment. He thought of his parents. His mother had been in Ravenclaw, his father in Gryffindor. They had died when he was very young, and his grandmother had always bemoaned that Peter had neither his mother's intelligence nor his father's strength of character. Peter could not remember his parents, but he kept a tattered picture of their smiling faces, joking over pints at the Three Broomsticks when they were young, before they'd had Peter, before they had died in what his grandmother would only call "a tragic accident," bitterly glaring down Peter's requests to know _more_. He didn't think that his parents would have been glad for a Slytherin son, or if they knew their child's sole distinctive trait was that he was a bit _sly_. And James, James would certainly be in Gryffindor, like everyone in his family before, and Peter knew that proximity was key to keeping James' friendship. James was brilliant, beloved, and magnetic. He wouldn't mean to, but he might forget about Peter, about his childhood friend, and then Peter suspected _he_ would matter a little less.

But, Peter thought, there was more to it than that. He didn't want to be in Slytherin - although a sneaking voice in his head kept whispering, _You probably do belong there, Peter._ He _wanted_ to be better than that. He wanted to be brave and true and strong. And maybe, just maybe, he could try to be that version of himself he dreamt of...

The Hat had been silent as Peter's thoughts raced by. _I still think that Slytherin might be the place for you, boy, but - if that is what you want - if you think you can - well, perhaps you will prove me wrong. It has been known to happen. And so, for you it will be -_

_"GRYFFINDOR."_

Peter's round cheeks gave way to a splitting grin as he stepped away from the stool, with the Hat still perched over his eyes. He quickly recognized his error, blushing all the more fiercely, and dropped it atop the stool and stepped headily towards his new family. The rushing sense of joy took over most of Peter's brain, as he tossed himself next to the sharply drawn Black boy, whose cold recalcitrance couldn't puncture Peter's buoyancy. Peter did, however, remember the Hat's last words, and in that moment, as he looked down the long table towards James, who awaited his Sorting and flashed Peter a thumbs up, Peter knew that he could do it. He could prove the Hat wrong. He felt full.

James Potter tucked his hands inside his robe confidently, turning his eyes away from Peter and the Gryffindor table and up to the parchment floating by Professor McGonagall. He was next, and he was ready.

"Potter, James."

James strode towards the stool, scooped up the Hat, and dropped it over his ears. His entire family had been in Gryffindor. He had been raised from a young age to value bravery and to stand up for others, especially those who couldn't stand up for themselves. He knew where he'd be Sorted, where he belonged.

 _Do you now,_ the Hat whispered.

 _Gryffindor,_ James thought firmly.

 _I rather think you're right,_ the Hat agreed. _But be careful, little lion, of expecting what is due to you. You'll go to Godric's house, because I see it in you, not because of your family, and certainly not because you expect it. It will not always be easy to be the man you imagine you'll be, but you will be needed in -_

_"GRYFFINDOR."_

For a few seconds, James didn't move. The Sorting had not gone at all as he'd thought it would, and it was the cheers of the Gryffindor table that jolted him into action. He stood up and removed the cap, and walked towards his table, quickly pulling on a broad grin. He shook out his dark shock of hair and bounded towards the end of the table, dropping next to Peter.

In this moment, James was ecstatic. He was at Hogwarts. He was in Gryffindor, and so was Peter, which he hadn't exactly been too sure would happen. As the last names were called and Sorted, he had piles of delicious food to devour, and everything felt golden, honeyed with possibility. But later that night, as he collapsed into the sheets of his four-poster bed in the Gryffindor dormitory, his mind would turn to the Hat's words. He wasn't exactly sure what they all meant, yet, but those final words - that he was _needed_ in Gryffindor, that he had a responsibility to his new home...That he understood.


End file.
